by Paul Doherty
‘Why was it burnt?’ Ranulf asked.
‘You’ve asked me that before. Perhaps a member of my parish resented anything from a Chapeleys hanging in this church.’
‘Were Molkyn the miller and Thorkle churchgoers?’
‘Thorkle more than Molkyn,’ Grimstone replied. ‘The miller feared neither God nor man. He did not like priests.’
Corbett came over and took the Book of the Dead from the parson’s fingers. ‘You are a priest, you hear confessions?’
‘Yes, both in the shriving pew and elsewhere.’
‘Father,’ Corbett crouched down to hold his gaze, ‘there’s a killer loose in Melford. He has killed Widow Walmer and other women. I believe he was responsible for the grisly execution of an innocent man. Don’t you know anything that can help me?’
‘Ask me,’ the parson stammered. ‘Ask me anything you wish.’
Corbett tapped the Book of the Dead. He got to his feet and glanced at the curate.
‘Melford is a busy place. It trades in wool, is well served by roads and trackways. People come and go. Has anyone ever knocked at your door and asked about a missing girl? Tinkers’ families, traders, Moon People?’ He smiled at Burghesh. ‘Even professional soldiers who move their families from castle to castle?’
‘We have had a number,’ the curate replied, ‘over the years. But, there again, I am not too sure whether the girls returned or whether they had run away. Sometime last spring I met a group of chapmen with their gaggle of women and children. They were asking about some wench who’d gone missing. I listened, but how could I help?’
‘Curate Robert is correct,’ Burghesh added. ‘For the love of God, Sir Hugh, go to Ipswich. You will find the alleyways and streets packed with young women who have fled their family or master. Widow Walmer is a good case in point.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, but I would have liked to.’
Corbett flicked through the book, with its close-marked entries. He accepted what Burghesh said. If it was true of Ipswich, it was certainly true of London. The brothels of Southwark were always on the lookout for runaways. The purveyors of soft flesh were constantly searching for what was new; it was so serious a matter even the King’s council had debated it.
He glanced at Ranulf, standing near the door, and hoped that he hid his unease. It was comfortable to sit in his bedchamber and spin theories like some master in the Schools at Oxford but what he needed was evidence, proof.
‘Let me ask you another question.’ Corbett walked over to the small latticed window so as to study the entries more carefully. ‘The parish of St Edmund’s serves most of Melford, yes? In your graveyard you have a plot called the Potter’s Field?’
‘That’s right,’ Parson Grimstone declared. ‘It’s that area of God’s acre which is reserved for the corpses of strangers, the victims of sudden violence and contagion. Often we don’t even know their names. We have such deaths in Melford: a tinker falls ill of the sweat or a beggar is crushed under a cart.’
‘And the corpses of unknown women?’ Corbett demanded.
Grimstone chewed on his lower lip and stared beseechingly at the curate.
‘Robert, I can’t remember, can you?’
‘There was one,’ Burghesh declared, taking the book from Corbett’s hand. ‘About two years ago. A young woman’s corpse was fished out of the Swaile.’
‘Ah yes, I remember.’ Parson Grimstone clicked his fingers. ‘That poor creature. She had been in the water for so long, she was sheeted immediately for burial.’
‘There!’ Burghesh had found the entry.
Corbett followed his stubby fingers across the page and translated the Latin entry.
‘Buried, the corpse of an unknown woman: the feast of St John the Baptist, 1301.’
‘And this book?’ Corbett handed it back to the parson. ‘It contains no other entries which might provoke suspicion? Where was this unknown corpse found?’
‘Down near Beauchamp Place,’ Burghesh replied. ‘We think poachers had been out on the river and probably dislodged it. It was found floating amongst the weeds.’
‘Poaching?’ Corbett smiled. ‘I met Sorrel yesterday, Furrell the poacher’s wife.’
‘Oh, that poor, benighted thing.’
‘Did Furrell ever come and see you?’ Corbett asked.
The parson shook his head.
‘Yes, he did!’ Robert the curate declared. ‘And it was just after Sir Roger had been executed.’
‘And what happened?’ Parson Grimstone asked.
‘Don’t you remember, Father,’ the curate insisted, ‘you met him in the parlour.’
Grimstone blinked. Corbett stared at him closely. The parson’s face was vein-streaked around the nose. Corbett noticed three dark blotches: one on his neck, the other on his forehead, the third on his right cheek. Corbett recalled what his physician friend had told him in London - how such blotches were the mark of an inveterate drinker.
‘Yes he did.’ Parson Grimstone asserted himself. ‘He came in and told fantastical stories of how Sir Roger was innocent. I didn’t believe him. In fact, I only half listened but he did say something interesting - about a Mummer’s Man. But Furrell was always full of tales.’
‘Why does Sorrel still search for his corpse?’ Burghesh asked. He came over and stood beside the chair and patted the parson on the shoulder.
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, I’m not a countryman,’ the old soldier replied, ‘but you have seen the land round here, Sir Hugh. Every piece is grassed over, whilst Furrell and Sorrel knew the woods like the backs of their hands.’
Corbett followed his drift. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘A newly marked grave might be ignored by a stranger but someone like Sorrel would find it soon enough. Whilst, if you dig a plot on meadow land, a shepherd or labourer would notice it, not to mention wild animals, who can sniff decaying flesh and dig it out.’
‘So his corpse must be well hidden,’ Ranulf declared.
‘Aye, that’s what convinces me about Sir Roger’s innocence,’ Corbett continued. ‘Furrell spoke in his defence and Furrell disappeared.’
‘He could have run away.’
‘Nonsense!’ Corbett glared at Curate Robert. ‘God knows Sorrel loves him and, undoubtedly, he loved her. She believes that he has been murdered and I accept that. Let’s go back to Molkyn the miller.’ Corbett sat down on one of the chests. ‘Do you remember those puzzles we used to play as children? Jumbled words which carry a message? Or pieces which, rearranged, form a picture of a knight on a horse or a maid in a castle? My mother, God rest her, always taught me to look for one particular word or piece, that was the key.’
He rubbed his boot against the shiny wooden floor and gazed under his eyebrows at Ranulf, who had his head down, trying to stifle a laugh. Whenever old Master Long Face indulged in whimsy, it was a sign that matters were becoming dangerous. The Clerk of the Green Wax wondered what curious dealings were forming in his master’s teeming, busy mind.
‘And Molkyn the miller is such a piece?’ Curate Robert asked.
‘Very good, sir! Very good indeed!’ Corbett breathed. ‘Molkyn the miller - an oaf, a wife-beater, a bullyboy.’
‘That’s no way to speak of the dead!’ Parson Grimstone snorted.
‘Very true, sir. But that’s not what I say, that’s his family’s opinion. I visited the mill last night. A less grieving group of people couldn’t be found, especially his young daughter, pretty Margaret. How old is she - eighteen, nineteen summers? Did she ever come and ask to be shriven?’
‘Robert spends more time than I do in the shriving pew.’
‘And I am bound by the seal of confession.’
‘So you are, so you are.’ Corbett crossed one leg over the other and played with the rowel of his spur. ‘And her father, Molkyn the miller? A man who feared neither God nor man.’
‘We’ve told you about him.’
‘And I am as
king you again, on your loyalty to the King. Did Molkyn the miller ever come here and speak to you about matters not covered by the seal of confession? Curate Robert, God knows you are an honest priest and your face is like an open book.’
‘Aye, he came one afternoon, about five years ago, around the same time Sir Roger Chapeleys was arrested. He knocked at the door of the priest’s house and said he wished to see the Bible.’
‘The Bible!’ Ranulf exclaimed.
‘Yes, he asked about certain verses from Leviticus. I was surprised but he was so insistent. Now Molkyn could read but not Latin. It was about ten verses in all. I can’t remember the actual chapter but it was the Mosaic prescription about a man not sleeping with his brother’s wife, animals, you know.’ Curate Robert waved his hand. ‘I went through, translating the verses for him. Molkyn listened very carefully then spun on his heel and walked out.’
‘And why do you think he was so interested in Leviticus?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t you ever wonder why a miller was so curious about obscure verses from the Old Testament?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ the curate replied, ‘if you knew how many odd requests are made of us . . . But, at the time, yes.’
‘Well, here’s a strange thing . . .’ Corbett got to his feet and walked to the door leading out to the garden. ‘We have a miller,’ he continued, ‘who couldn’t give a fig about church. However, about the same time he became foreman of a jury which would send a man to the gallows, he became very curious about obscure verses from Leviticus. Now, wouldn’t you say, sirs,’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder, ‘that the miller knew what God’s teaching was? Good Lord, the humblest peasant in the kingdom, unlettered and unschooled, knows you don’t sleep with your brother’s wife or his sheep or goat. So why should Molkyn make his way up here and ask such a question?’ He turned and stared.
Grimstone was still shaking. Curate Robert’s face was ashen. Burghesh stood mouth gaping.
‘We could,’ Corbett whirled his fingers, ‘turn this round and round like a spinning top. I wager if I went down to the Golden Fleece, no one would recall Molkyn talking about scripture.’
‘What are you implying?’ Parson Grimstone demanded querulously. ‘Sir Hugh, you go up and down like a hare caught in the garden.’
‘This is my theory,’ Corbett replied, ‘and I have yet to reflect on it. I think Molkyn the miller was threatened. Someone brought verses from the Book of Leviticus to his attention. Molkyn was frightened. A surly man, he wouldn’t have given a pennyworth of flour for what people thought, but this was different. So he comes up to this church. Molkyn’s no dullard. He doesn’t give the actual chapter and verse but a whole collection of verses which he asks Curate Robert to translate.’
‘And in that passage?’ Ranulf asked.
‘In that passage,’ Corbett replied, ‘was a warning: that’s what disturbed Molkyn. It’s like me leaving a quotation from Scripture on the table beside Curate Robert’s bed: Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter thirteen, Verse five. You’d be intrigued, wouldn’t you?’
Curate Robert nodded.
‘And that’s interesting.’ Corbett smiled. He emphasised the points with his fingers. ‘Who would warn Molkyn the miller? Why should they warn him? And how many people know the Book of Leviticus?’
‘You are not accusing the priests, are you?’ Burghesh’s face flushed.
‘Hush, man,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Even if I was, it wouldn’t make them murderers.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Burghesh replied hotly. ‘I am tutored and schooled in the Bible. So are many people in Melford: Sorrel can read; Deverell the carpenter; Master Matthew the taverner—’
‘All I am saying,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘is that someone said something to Molkyn which disturbed him. It doesn’t make that person a murderer but it is interesting.’
‘I am confused.’ Parson Grimstone rested his head in his hands. ‘Sir Hugh, are there any other questions? I don’t feel well.’ He got to his feet. ‘Master Burghesh, if you could look after our visitors . . . Robert?’
And, without waiting for an answer, the priest, helped by the curate, left the sacristy.
‘Is Parson Grimstone a well man?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, he’s well enough,’ Burghesh replied, picking up the Book of the Dead. He put it back in the chest and secured the lock. ‘He’s a little older than me, past his fifty-fifth summer, and sometimes his mind becomes forgetful.’
‘He drinks, doesn’t he? Quite heavily?’
Burghesh got to his feet and came back.
‘Yes, master clerk, he drinks. He’s a priest, he’s lonely, he’s made mistakes, he becomes confused. But, he has no woman, he does not dip his fingers into the poor box. He goes out at night to anoint the dying. Parson Grimstone tries to be a good pastor but, yes, he drinks. In his youth he was a very fine priest.’ Burghesh’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘A very scholarly man. He could have become an archdeacon, even a bishop. He has a fine house but he lives sparsely as a soldier. His one weakness is the claret, a petty foible; his parishioners allow it.’
‘Do you know him well?’ Corbett asked.
‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’ Burghesh laughed. ‘We are half-brothers. Different names but the same blood.’ He grimaced. ‘I know there’s no likeness between us. We grew up here - well, not in Melford itself, but in a farm nearby. Our father married twice. John’s mother died in childbirth. We were both sent to school in Ipswich. I always wanted to be a stonemason. I remember when they finished part of this church. I used to come up here and help the builders until a soldier’s life beckoned. I became a master bowman, a sergeant-at-arms. I helped myself to plunder, gave my money to the Lombards and, when I’d seen enough of fighting, came back here.’
‘You were married?’ Corbett asked.
‘Many years ago. But she died and that was it. You get tired of death, don’t you, Sir Hugh? One night eating and drinking round the campfire with your friends, the next morning the same man takes an arrow in his gullet. I came back here, oh, about twelve years ago. I bought the old forester’s house behind the church but, if the truth be known, I returned to look after John.’
‘And Curate Robert?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, he’s what you described him as, an open book. A good priest but anxious, ever so anxious.’
‘What about?’ Corbett asked.
‘He likes the ladies.’ Burghesh’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that. Many a priest can cope with it. Curate Robert has gone the other way. He is constantly sermonising about the lusts of the flesh. It’s a joke amongst many of the parishioners.’
‘But a good priest?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Oh yes, he has a gift, especially with the young. A gentle man, his severe face hides a kind heart.’
‘Could someone like Margaret the miller’s daughter have approached him?’
‘It’s possible. But come, Sir Hugh, you haven’t broken your fast. Let’s leave Parson Grimstone.’
He took them out into the graveyard. The sun was now breaking through, turning the hoar frost on the grass to a glistening dampness. Birds swooped above the tombstones; somewhere a rook or raven croaked. They passed the half-finished cross. Corbett noticed the barrow, hoe and mattock, the freshly dug grave, the brown earth piled high beside it.
‘Poor Elizabeth!’ Burghesh murmured. ‘That will be her last resting place.’
‘You dug it?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, I did. I act as verger, general handyman round the parish. I have to. Trade is good, everybody is busy, no one has time to spare. Oh, we have church ales, the paying of the tithes, but why should a man dig graves if he can earn more raising sheep?’
They passed the priest’s house and followed the path round, across a small yard housing stables, hen runs, chicken coops and a small dovecote. At the end of this yard stood a small orchard of apple and pear trees.
‘They give good fruit in summer.�
� Burghesh stopped and stared at the branches. ‘But they need pruning.’
He led them through the orchard, which gave way to a small field. At the far end, flanked on either side by trees, stood the forester’s house. It was narrow but three-storeyed, with white plaster and black beams. Its windows had been enlarged and filled with glass, the roof was newly tiled.
‘It’s what I used to dream about,’ Burghesh confessed.
He led them along the path, took a ring of keys from his belt and opened the front door. The passage inside was stone-flagged but clean and well swept. The plaster walls were lime-washed and there were shelves holding pots of herbs. Corbett smelt lavender, pennyroyal, agrimony and coriander.
‘I’m a keen gardener,’ Burghesh declared.
He took them through, past the comfortable parlour, kitchen and buttery into the physician’s garden at the back. This was formed in a half-moon shape, ringed by a red-brick wall. Burghesh proudly pointed out how he had arranged the herbs according to their uses: herbs for bites and stings, herbs for the kitchen and household. He then led them back and made them sit at the thick wooden kitchen table whilst he served them home-brewed ale and freshly baked bread.
‘Are you a cook as well?’ Ranulf asked, enjoying himself.
‘No, I sell the herbs to the apothecaries and buy my bread.’
‘Are you a hunter?’ Corbett asked.
Burghesh threw his head back and laughed.
‘I’m as clumsy as a dray horse.’ He supped at his ale. ‘I understand we will be meeting again tonight?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett recalled. ‘Sir Louis Tressilyian has invited us to supper.’
‘And Parson Grimstone. We’ll all be there.’
‘Tell me about Curate Robert’s peccadilloes.’
Burghesh hid a smile behind his tankard. ‘Who’s been talking?’
‘Well, no one has, but,’ Corbett smiled at his half-lie, ‘I think you know. The flagellation?’
‘Yes, Parson John’s often talked about it. He put a stop to it here. But,’ Burghesh sighed, ‘Curate Robert has been seen out in the countryside. God knows what sins he thinks he’s committed. We all have our secrets, eh, master clerk?’